Always the palpable dread turning behind

my smile or frown; I’m the victim in the

horror film that feels the sentient house’s

aura on approach, the foreboding, the angst.

Behind the pulled shade she waits to inform,

throwing looks, crying distrust of even me,

her tenaculum snared offspring.  I come to do

her bidding grudgingly; a calloused hearted son.

I’ve never learned: I attempt to reason, to plea,

but logic is dead in her house, killed by disease

which mints lies and villains as readily

as harsh light cast shadows onto a wall.

She’s not the one needing help she warns,

but the others and, yes, me too, if I think so!

So absolute in her anger…I wish it were true;

this helplessness precludes affection.